


Believe Me

by dc_comic_girl



Category: South Park
Genre: M/M, Oneshot, bunny - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-03
Updated: 2020-08-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:34:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25695874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dc_comic_girl/pseuds/dc_comic_girl
Summary: If you die more than once, can it really be called “dying”?
Relationships: Kenny McCormick/Leopold "Butters" Stotch
Comments: 8
Kudos: 58





	Believe Me

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys! This is just a short Bunny oneshot that has been rattling around in my head for the last month or so. I hope I did it justice...
> 
> This isn’t explicitly related to my ongoing "I've Loved These Days" series, but it's also not contradictory, because, frankly, I'm not smart enough to have multiple universes playing out in my literary mind. I really hope you enjoy it. 
> 
> If anyone asks, I don't own either of these characters.
> 
> Dedicated to any of you who are struggling with feelings of hopelessness or worthlessness. I don't know who needs to hear this, but you matter, and I would miss you.

If you die more than once, can it really be called “dying”? Or does dying, by definition, need to only happen once? Like, for instance, if you get cut in half, or run over by a truck, or shot in the goddamn fucking head, but then the next morning you just, kinda, wake up in your bed, did you really die?

And, if you can’t die, can you ever actually live? Are living and dying two book ends of existing, or can they be mutually exclusive? You can’t die without having lived, so doesn’t it stand to reason that you can’t really live if you’re never going to die?

And how do you know if you’re just batshit crazy? How do you know if you ever really died at all, if no one else seems to notice or even remember? If you wake up in the morning and you can still feel every single bullet hole on your unblemished skin, and can still hear your mother’s screams echoing in your head, and you can still feel the fire of Hell licking your cheeks, but you’re still in your bed and there isn’t blood anywhere, how do you know it wasn’t just a really bad dream?

When Kenny was young, he had seen an episode of an old TV show called The Twilight Zone. It had been in black and white, and the effects sucked, and Kenny thought it was pretty gay, but the cable his father was stealing from the neighbours across the street only picked up a few channels, so it was that or static.

As Kenny remembered it, there had been this guy, who looked a whole hell of a lot like Captain Kirk, flying on a plane, and every time he looked out the window, he’d see this weird looking bear thing with a fucked up face that he called a gremlin. Captain Kirk kept yelling at people to look at the gremlin, but no one seemed to notice. No one cared. The guy started freaking. He thought he was going crazy, since no one else saw the thing. He was sure it was there, but what do you do if your own mind is the one lying to you?

Anyway, the plane guy ended up opening the window to try and kill the bear thing. Then people noticed. Then people cared. They landed the plane and they called him crazy and locked him up.

Still…

Something had to make those big scratches on the wing of the plane.

Kenny lit a cigarette. He had to spark his Zippo a couple times before it caught. The lighter was old, and the autumn wind was blowing hard.

Isla Garcia was pretty fucking hot, but was she hot enough to be walking across town, in the middle of fall, in the dead of the night, without wearing any shoes? Probably not.

Her dad had come home early. Isla had been sure he would be out all night when she texted Kenny at 10 pm asking him to come over, but apparently she had over estimated just how long he was planning to stay at The Peppermint Hippo

“I have the whole house to myself,” she had told him. “I’m really lonely.”

And Kenny had obliged. Because what else was he going to do? Because he was already pretty stoned and eight blocks just didn’t seem like that far at the time. Because maybe Kenny was a little lonely too.

And because Isla Garcia was pretty fucking hot.

He had known, even before leaving his house, that she would kick him out. They always kicked him out. He wasn’t exactly the kind of boy you bring home to meet the parents; he wasn’t “boyfriend material”, as Jenny Simons had once told him in grade seven.

He had known he’d have to leave before her father got home and trek back to his house in the middle of the night. He just hadn’t banked on having to climb out her window and down the rain gutter. And he thought he might be able to get his goddamn shoes from the front hall before making the escape.

Kenny took a drag on his cigarette, holding the smoke in his cheeks to try and warm them from the inside out. Maybe he was crazy. Maybe he was locked in some asylum somewhere and this whole town was all some nutso dream playing out in his head. He had to admit, it would explain a hell of a lot.

Maybe he was crazy, and, apart from being crazy, he was just a normal kid who could die just like everyone else. Maybe he could go home and drink all the bleach under the sink and he’d die, just like anyone else, and he wouldn’t wake up tomorrow in his bed, forced to relive the burning sensation as his stomach dissolved in on itself. Maybe there wasn’t a gremlin. Maybe he was just fucking nuts.

Or maybe he wasn’t.

Kenny looked at the cigarette in his hand. He turned it over, through his thumb, index, and middle fingers – staring at it as he walked down the street. He was getting older. The thought weighed on him heavily. If he couldn’t die, but he could age, what did that mean for his future? Would he cap out eventually? Remain some middle-aged-looking man for the rest of his life, passing for 45? Or would he continue to grow older indefinitely, slowly turning to dust as he watched the people around him die?

Kenny thought of Stan’s grandpa, and how he had once asked them to kill him. He had begged the eight-year-olds to put him out of his misery. Pleaded with them to let him leave this world and find peace in the next.

_“Kill me, Billy. Kill me goddamnit.”_

Kenny took another drag from his cigarette. He knew, at least on some level, that a normal sixteen-year-old shouldn’t be thinking so deeply about the implications of old age. But, then, he wasn’t normal – he was immortal.

Or he was crazy.

Kenny threw the butt of his cigarette onto the ground. He stopped himself from snuffing it out with his heel, remembering he wasn’t wearing shoes. Instead, he stood and stared at the white nub as the red embers glowed brighter and then died out.

Kenny looked up from the sidewalk and started walking again. He was nearly at the playground, which signified an approximate halfway point between his house and Isla’s. Kenny quickened his pace, as another gust of cold wind bit at his nose. He pulled the hood of his sweater tight around his face, trying to conceal as much as he could from the wind.

The wind was stinging his eyes, and Kenny squinted, to avoid letting them water. He was so focused on the road ahead of him, he almost didn’t see the large, out of place, lump lying underneath the jungle gym in the sand.

Almost.

Kenny halted in his tracks and held his breath. Given all the things he had seen run rampant in South Park, it was hard to tell what could be hiding in the shadows at 2 am. It could be a zombie, or it could be a leprechaun. Hell, it could be Manbearpig come to seek his revenge on the town. While Kenny wasn’t exactly scared of whatever was crouching under the playset, he wasn’t exactly eager to be torn apart tonight, either.

Kenny slowly took a step backwards, keeping his eyes fixed on the lump in the sand. Just as he was deciding what the next shortest route to his house would be, the lump rolled over, revealing itself to be a small blond boy, curled in on himself, knees to his chest.

“Butters?” Kenny asked softly.

The boy was shivering so badly, Kenny thought he might have hypothermia. He had no jacket, not even a sweater. Now that Kenny’s eyes had adjusted to the dark surrounding the boy, he could see he had dug out a small hole in the sand, with shaky and uneven walls providing little shelter from the wind.

Kenny took a step forward. “Butters?” he asked a little louder.

The boy’s eyes opened, and Kenny could tell he hadn’t been asleep at all, only wishfully hoping.

“K-K-Kenny?” the boy responded, through chattering teeth. He pushed himself up into a seated position, but quickly wrapped his arms back around his torso.

“Jesus, fuck,” Kenny swore under his breath, taking a couple large steps towards the boy in the sand. “What the fuck are you doing, Butters?”

“O-oh…uh…well, I…uh…” Butters replied, his eyes darting back and forth. Now that Kenny could see him up close, he noticed Butters’ nose was as red as the embers from his cigarette. Kenny wondered how long he had been out here in the Colorado wind.

“Butters, it’s two o’clock in the fucking morning. Why aren’t you home?” Kenny asked, kneeling down so he was face level with Butters’.

“Oh well…see…my parents took my key and…they uh…”

Kenny could see Butters’ eyes were rimmed red and still glistening. He looked so fragile, Kenny thought he might shatter at any minute.

Without really thinking about it, Kenny stood back up, reaching out his hand for the tiny boy.

“Come on,” he said gruffly, more as a command than an invitation.

Butters shook his head frantically, arms still wrapped tightly around himself.

“I-I can’t go home, Kenny…I…I can’t go…”

“We aren’t going to your house,” Kenny replied. He snapped his fingers and held out his hand further, nearly touching Butters’ red nose. Butters took it, hesitantly.

As soon as his fingers were in Kenny’s palm, Kenny tugged him to his feet. Butters was light. He was tiny, height-wise, only as tall as some of the girls in their grade. He was skinny too, and Kenny wondered, not for the first time, if his parents starved him at home. He wouldn’t put it past them.

Butters nearly toppled over from the force of Kenny’s tug, and Kenny had to catch and steady him. The skin on his forearms was prickly like ice.

“Jesus Christ,” Kenny mumbled. He shrugged off his own hoodie and wrapped it around Butters. The smaller boy seemed to resist at first, but he didn’t have much strength to work with, so he quickly conceded and slipped his arms into the baggy sweater. Kenny rubbed his hands up and down Butters’ arms.

“Better?” he asked, looking directly into Butters’ shinny eyes.

Butters nodded and sniffled quietly.

“Come on,” Kenny said again, tipping his head in the direction of SoDoSoPa.

The boys walked in silence for a couple blocks.

“So whatdja do?” Kenny asked finally, cupping his hands over his mouth and blowing into them for warmth.

“Oh…well…uh, see, Eric wanted to borrow my dad’s car to drive up to Denver and he…sorta…broke it…” Butters let his voice trail off, staring down at his hands, engulfed by the sleeves of Kenny’s sweater. Kenny could picture Cartman totalling Mr. Stotch’s car, then leaving it sitting in their driveway for Butters to deal with. Hell, he probably made Butters pay for the tow.

“Jesus, Butters, why do you keep letting Cartman tell you what to do?” Kenny asked, rolling his eyes at the pitiful display.

“Well, uh, I don’t know…” Butters sniffled again. “Why do you let Stan and Kyle tell you what do?”

Kenny’s cheeks burned hot with embarrassment at the comparison, and he felt himself become defensive.

“At least Stan and Kyle are my _friends_ ,” he shot back, but instead of vindication, Butters’ flinch of pain only made Kenny feel worse.

That was the thing about Butters. He was gullible and naïve and sometimes pathetic, but every once and a while he would say something so poignant, it would slap you in the face and make you want to sit down and dissect everything in your life.

Why _did_ Kenny listen to Stan and Kyle? They almost always led him into dangerous situations, and never believed him when he would tell them about his deaths. And didn’t that make it worse – if they didn’t know he wouldn’t stay dead, but were still okay to play with the possibility? All his life, it had been clear he was the most expendable of their little group. Even when it hadn’t been fatal, how quickly had they prostituted him on TV or blamed the class’ lice on him?

_They’re your friends._

But why? Were they friends of convenience? Was it easier to include him than to tell him to get lost? Or did Stan and Kyle truly find value in a friendship with Kenny? Did even a part of them miss him when he was gone? And why did this thought keep Kenny up at nights – as if it would give his pitiful existence meaning to know that his childhood friends grieved him when he died?

Was he really as desperate as Butters?

“I just…I mean Cartman doesn’t care about anyone, Butters. Just himself,” Kenny tried, guilt eating at him. Butters didn’t reply and they resumed their silence.

SoDoSoPa was never quiet. It was always lit up and bustling, and tonight was no different. Even now, closing in on 3 in the morning, young, rich people milled about, hopping from gastropubs to dance clubs and back. Kenny hated it.

He had never been particularly proud of his house, but the stark juxtaposition against the boujee restaurants and bars only made him feel more ashamed as they approached. He chanced a glance at Butters out of the corner of his eyes, trying to tell if he would turn his nose up, but the boy was still too busy shivering.

Kenny unlocked the door and held it open for Butters. Butters hesitated, staring into the tiny shack and then back at Kenny.

“Will, uh…will your parents be sore that I’m…”

“They aren’t even here,” Kenny shrugged, nodding his head towards the door again. “Everyone’s out.”

This was all the confirmation Butters required to run into the small house. Kenny followed, closing and locking the door behind him. True to his prediction, the house was deserted. Kenny suspected his parents were off on a bender somewhere and Kevin was couch surfing with some friends in North Park. Kenny thought Karen may be in her room asleep, but it was equally likely she was staying at the Tuckers’ residence with Craig’s little sister all weekend.

Kenny peeled off his damp, dirty socks, and let his bare feet hit the cold floor. They didn’t have heating, and while the house was a nice reprieve from the howling wind, it was still cold as a witch’s titty. Kenny felt his shame deepen as he looked over at a still trembling Butters.

“Here,” Kenny offered, pulling a jacket out of the closet. “Put this on. It’ll warm up soon.”

Butters nodded and dutifully slipped on the oversized jacket. Kenny couldn’t help but smile, looking at the tiny boy swimming in his clothes.

“Did you eat?” Kenny asked, walking over to the kitchen. He flipped a light switch and was pleased to see, when the room lit up, that the electricity hadn’t been cut this month.

“I-I’m okay,” Butters replied, following Kenny into the kitchen and sitting down at the table. Kenny pulled out a box of Pop-Tarts anyway, and stuck two in the toaster.

“Sorry, they’re blueberry. I think Karen bought them,” Kenny apologized, leaning under the sink to grab the bottle next to the bleach.

He pulled out two mismatched mugs and poured some of the amber liquid into each. He sat down at the table across from Butters and slid a mug over to him. Butters wrapped his tiny hands around the mug and peered into it.

“Wh-what is it?” Butters asked, as if he was staring at poison.

“Whisky,” Kenny replied. “It’ll warm you up.”

Butters looked at the cup and drummed his fingers against the side of it.

“I’m not really…s’pposed to drink…” Butters mumbled. “My dad’d be real sore if he found out and he’d ground me.”

Kenny took a swig from his mug and heat began to fill his chest. He let out a soft hiss between his teeth as the alcohol burned down his throat and looked up at Butters.

“Aren’t you already grounded?”

Butters bit his lip but didn’t argue with the logic. He took a large gulp from the mug and started to cough uncontrollably. Kenny let out a soft chuckle, absently thinking how bizarre it was to have reached sixteen and not had a drink.

“Just sip it until you get used to it,” Kenny offered, suppressing more laughter.

Butters nodded, still trying to get his coughing under control.

“I-I’m not sure I like that a whole lot,” Butters coughed, pushing the mug away from him on the table.

“Good,” Kenny said gravely. “If you start liking it, stop drinking it.”

Butters tilted his head inquisitively, but Kenny didn’t expand, deciding to save Butters from the lessons of an alcoholic’s son.

The Pop-Tarts popped and Kenny pushed out from the table to grab them. He took another swig from his mug as he put the pastries on a sheet of paper towel and handed it to Butters.

For someone who had just declared his indifference to food, Butters inhaled his toaster pastries like he hadn’t eaten in a week. Kenny wondered if he had.

“You want another?” Kenny asked.

Butters used the paper towel to wipe crumbs away from his mouth and shook his head.

“No, I’m okay. I really appreciate it though. I oughta be going.”

Butters stood up and began to peel the layers of Kenny’s clothes off. Kenny stood so quickly he nearly knocked his chair over.

“Going where? Butters you were sleeping in a park.” Kenny tried to keep the panic out of his voice, but he heard it edge its way in. “I mean, I know my place is a shithole, but it’s better than the fucking ground.”

Butters blushed and held out the jacket to Kenny. “Well, gee Ken…I can’t impose on your family like this.”

“You aren’t,” Kenny said firmly. “Just…come on.”

Kenny held out his hand to Butters, who took it. Kenny could feel the whisky sloshing around in his belly and was sure that’s why his heart suddenly beat more quickly.

He led Butters to his bedroom down the hall and hoped the boy couldn’t smell the stale marijuana smoke that still lingered in the air.

“I’ll sleep on the floor,” Kenny said without hesitation, figuring it was the gentlemanly thing to do. Plus, if he froze to death in the night, he would still wake up in the morning.

“No, no. Don’t be silly,” Butters said, already crouching down to get on the floor. “It’s _your_ house.”

“Butters,” Kenny said, pulling Butters back into a standing position. “You’ve slept on the ground enough tonight.”

There was only one blanket on Kenny’s bed, which meant Karen must be home and she must have taken the other one to counter the lack of heat. Kenny went to his closet and tried to gather as many clean sweaters in his arms as possible. Butters was already sitting on the bed. His skin had returned to its natural pink, and Kenny thought he almost seemed to be glowing in the darkness of the room. Then again, it could be the lights of SoDoSoPa outside.

Kenny walked back over and gave the pillow a pat, urging Butters to lie down. When Butters complied, Kenny pulled the lone blanket up to his shoulders, then started piling his sweaters on top of the boy. Butters giggled underneath the clothes and Kenny couldn’t help but smile. He hadn’t thought that one cup of whisky would be enough to drunken anyone, but maybe if it was your first taste and you hadn’t had anything to eat in a while.

“’Night, Butters,” he whispered, once all but one of the sweaters had been piled around the blond on the bed. “Sleep tight.”

Butters giggled again, and Kenny lay down on the ground, wrapping himself in the one remaining sweater.

The boys lay in silence, listening to the hustle and bustle of the city outside Kenny’s bedroom.

“Kenny?”

Kenny had nearly been asleep when Butters called him, but he sat up quickly.

“Yeah?” he asked, searching for Butters’ face in the dark.

“Are you sure you don’t wanna sleep up here?” Butters asked.

“I’m fine here, dude,” Kenny assured, lying back down.

“Oh…okay,” Butters said, sounding uneasy. “It’s just…kinda cold. So, I just thought, if we were closer…”

Kenny felt blood rush to his face. His mouth felt very dry and he wasn’t exactly sure what to do.

All doubts about Butters sobriety dissolved. He was drunk. That had to be it.

Still, he did make a solid point about body heat, and now that it had been said out loud, Kenny was starting to feel uncomfortably cold on the floor.

He silently pulled himself up and walked over to the bed. As soon as he was near, Butters scooted his body over to the other edge of the single bed and turned up the patchwork blanketing for Kenny to crawl under. Kenny gingerly lay his body down next to Butters, careful to not touch the boy.

“Thanks, Kenny,” Butters said softly, shutting his eyes.

Kenny didn’t reply. He was much warmer now that he was on the bed, surrounded by his winter wardrobe, yet he couldn’t seem to control the shivers running through him. He tried to seize up, so as not to disturb his guest, but he seemed to have lost all control of his body.

“Kenny?” Butters’ soft, sweet voice once again cut into the silence of the room.

“Yeah?” Kenny replied in a whisper, turning his head to face Butters.

“Kenny…” Butters repeated, and his voice slurred slightly. “Do you have a nickname Kenny?”

“’Kenny’ is a nickname,” Kenny answered, trying not to smile at Butters’ drunk ramblings. “My name is Kenneth.”

“Kenneth…” Butters repeated, letting the name roll around in his mouth. Kenny kind of liked the way it sounded. “’Butters’ is my nickname.”

“Yeah, I know, dude,” Kenny smiled. “You should get to sleep.”

“I kinda hate it,” Butters said, more to himself than Kenny. “’Butters’ I mean.”

“Yeah?” Kenny asked, slipping his elbow under his head, still facing Butters. The light from his window was hitting Butters in a way that reminded Kenny of the angels he had met in heaven.

“Yeah,” Butters nodded with a yawn. “My uncle called me it.”

“Oh? I thought your parents did,” Kenny grinned. He knew he should be urging Butters to fall asleep, but unknown forces were encouraging him to drive the conversation.

“No, it was my uncle. When I was real small.” Butters frowned slightly. “He used to say I was smooth as butter.”

Kenny’s smile dropped. Ice filled his veins as realization slowly dawned on him.

“Butters…Leopold…why didn’t you…tell…”

Kenny couldn’t find the words.

“Well, I told Eric.” Butters hiccuped. “He thought it was real funny.”

Bile rose in Kenny’s throat and he felt a sudden urge to go find and kill Eric Cartman.

“I think maybe you’re right, Kenny, I think maybe I’m not his friend,” Butters said softly.

“I didn’t mean-”

“But he’s all I got, see?”

Kenny stared at the boy lying next to him. The light was still bouncing off him. It hit a small scar above his left eye, and Kenny’s stomach tightened.

“I’m sorry,” Kenny whispered hoarsely.

“Oh, it’s okay, Ken. You’re my friend. ‘Member when you came to Hawaii with me? I dunno if I’m your friend, but you sure are mine.”

Butters stared back at Kenny and smiled dreamily. Kenny licked his lips, trying to alleviate some of the dryness that was filling his mouth. 

“You’re my friend, Leo.”

Butters smiled contently and closed his eyes. Kenny kept his arm bent under his head, staring at the boy as he nestled into the pillow.

Kenny’s heart was pounding and he could hear the blood pumping in his ears. He had never felt this way before. Usually he was calm, lying next to someone in a bed. He always knew the right thing to say, always knew where to move his body or what to do with his hands. But none of those times had been in his own bed, and never before had he felt so jarringly out of place.

Butters on the other hand, looked completely at peace – his baby blue eyes closed and his cheeks once again rosy. Kenny wondered if he had ever shared a bed with someone before. It had never occurred to him that he had, but when he tried to imagine it, the thought only made Kenny’s stomach flip.

Would Butters grieve him? If Kenny were to disappear in the night, or die of a heart attack in the morning, would Butters mourn?

Kenny imagined a casket being lowered into the ground in a deserted graveyard. His friends were off in the distance, playing football and laughing loudly, not a care in the world. He could hear his own screams from within the casket. Why couldn’t anyone else hear him? Why hadn’t anyone noticed?

A sudden impulse filled Kenny, and he felt powerless to resist it. He swallowed thickly, trying once again, in vein, to clear the dryness from his mouth.

“Bu-…Leo?” Kenny asked, so softly he wondered if he was hoping Butters would hear or not.

“Hmm?” Butters asked, tilting his head but not opening his eyes.

“If I…if I told you something crazy…would you believe me?”

Butters opened his eyes and stared across the pillow at Kenny.

“Why, sure I would, Kenny!” he answered without any hesitation.

Kenny looked back at him for another few seconds, and the boy smiled encouragingly.

Kenny took a deep breath, trying to find the right words.

“I…can’t…die,” he finally sputtered out. He opened one eye to peak at his bedmate’s reaction. It was unreadable, and Kenny began to panic.

“I mean, I _can_ die. I die a lot. I die all the time, in lots of different ways. But I always come back, and no one even remembers or…or cares, I don’t know. And sometimes I feel like it’s all just in my head and I’m going crazy, but it’s not, dude. It’s real. I don’t think I can die, for real, and I can’t stop it and no one ever believes me when I tell them.”

Kenny let himself exhale, exhausted, as if he had just released some large weight he had been carrying uphill for years. He looked back up into Butters’ eyes, willing him to say something. Wanting him to not laugh or blow him off or walk away. Begging him to believe him.

Butters was silent for what felt like hours before he finally took a deep breath.

“That must be awful lonely,” he finally replied, his voice cracking in the middle.

Kenny stared at him as the world tunneled, his mouth agape and his heart pounding. Suddenly, in spite of himself, he let out a soft giggle. It grew into a hearty chuckle and finally a boisterous laugh.

He knew Butters was staring at him with worried, wide eyes, but Kenny couldn’t stop laughing, even as tears began to stream down his cheeks.

“It _is_ ,” he finally got out, through the laughter. “It _is_ lonely.”

Butters let out a nervous laugh, as Kenny’s own hysteria started to die down. He wiped at his eyes, looking up at the blond across from him.

Butters stared back, looking worried. He reached up a hand and touched the side of Kenny’s face, looking like he was lost in thought.

“You know, Kenny, when we were real young, I used to have all these crazy dreams. You’d always…well, somethin’d always happen to you, real bad like, and I’d get some kinda scared. I’d wake up in the morning just a wreck. I’d always kinda hurry to school, when I’d have these dreams, just to let myself know you were alright and it had just been a dream. And you were always there, just looking fine as can be.”

Butters took a deep breath, pulling his hand back from Kenny’s cheek.

“It got to the point where I was havin’ these dreams all the time. Nearly every other night, I mean. Gosh, they scared me somethin’ awful…but you were always okay! So I just told myself, I must be crazy or somethin’ and I left it at that.”

Butters rolled over onto his back, so he was facing the ceiling again.

“I just mean, what I’m tryin’ to say is, I know it’s probably awful selfish to say, and I’m real sorry you’re lonely, but I’m happy you aren’t dead, Kenny. I’d rather I just be crazy than you be dead.”

Kenny didn’t know what to say. He felt the lights filling the room and was finally sure they were coming from Butters and not SoDoSoPa. He wanted to hug Butters and pull him towards him, like a buoy in the ocean.

It hadn’t changed anything, not really. Butters would probably forget by the morning. Be it the curse or the whisky, Kenny was sure by the time the sun rose, Butters would be back to believing it was all just another nightmare. But he believed him right now, and maybe that was enough.

Kenny dreamed, that night, that he was on a plane with Butters, coming back from Hawaii. He looked out the window, and Manbearpig was tearing up the wing.

“There’s a gremlin on the wing of the plane,” he told Butters in a panic. “You have to believe me, Leo. There’s a gremlin!”

“I know. I see him too,” Butters replied, taking his hand and giving it a squeeze.

Butters smiled at him, and Kenny knew that everything was going to be okay.

“Look," Butters whispered, pointing out the window, past the monster and towards the ground. "We’re almost home.”

**Author's Note:**

> Just kidding. I'll be posting the next chapter of "This Is The Time" really soon, for any cross-over readers. I just couldn't shake this idea, and it's a long weekend in Canada, so I thought, "what the hell".
> 
> Please feel free to review, or reach out to me on tumblr at dc-comic-girl. Love to you all. Stay safe!


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